The Control Center
by tracelynn
Summary: We've all seen the tributes as they die, the pain they feel as the lifeblood leaks out of them, but how do their Mentors feel when they hear the cannon fire? A not-so-little oneshot (maybe not only a oneshot) in my 500 Years of Penance universe.


**Here's something that I've been dying to put together for a while. Anyone that knows me knows that I LOVE to write about Victors, their lives after the Games, and their dynamics with the other Victors, etc. and this was one of those things that helps me explore this type of writing that I really love. It turned out way longer than intended, and I should have really been writing BMO instead, but I was too caught up in this to stop. Inspired by Chaff's chapter in _The Victors Project_ by Oisin55. Read that story. It's my favorite THG fanfiction to date.**

 **Trigger Warnings: Pretty much everything across the board. Profanity, sexual references, gore, torture, self harm, etc.**

* * *

Seeder Howell walked quietly into the Control Center, her hands tucked behind her back. They held several manila folders, chock full of notes and sketches and forms. Some of them were scribbled instructions from Freeha, who was back home in Eleven sick with the pox that'd been sweeping through a part of the District lately. Others were pictures her tribute had drawn or questions she'd asked. But a majority of them were long dissertations of different strategies written by Seeder. She and Tulip had discussed them for hours, deciding the best tactics. Stay alone, skip the Bloodbath, find a good hiding spot, Seeder would manage to send her a weapon when she got enough funds hopefully, and she'd reappear around the finale. Almost like Seeder had the year before. The perfect plan.

Seeder let out a shaky breath as she stepped through the glass doors. A large digital clock counted down the minutes until the start of the sixty second countdown; there were about twenty minutes left. Seeder had left at what she thought was early, but most of the Mentors were already here and ready to go. She hustled over to the two side-by-side seats, marked with a bright white holographic _11_ floating above them. A drowsy looking Vissarion was knocking back a full pot of coffee to keep himself awake, and he smiled weakly at Seeder as she sat down. He had a good boy this year, but Vissarion did not seem too pleased with his choice of allies. He was in an infamous Lower District Anti-Career alliance. While it had worked in the Seventeenth Games for Jaguar and the Twenty Eighth Games for Mercedes, it had failed to succeed since.

Seeder flipped on the giant screen that stretched up two stories in front of her. Immediately, a scene of the goodbye room was presented. Seeder bit her lip as she shuffled her papers and pulled up important things on the screen, like the sponsorship catalog, Tulip's sponsor points, and her vitals monitor. Tulip was putting on her baggy tan cargo pants and matching top, made out of a flimsy cotton material. Her Stylist helped her with the ordeal. Seeder looked at the sixteen year old girl and smiled despite the nerves making her heart throb incessantly. She would do just fine.

Soon enough, the digital clock poised in view of all twenty three Mentors ticked away. Some of the Career Mentors watched avidly as their tributes climbed into the tubes eagerly, while some of the Outlier Mentors looked worried, emotionless, or nervous like her. The tributes were in their tubes and rising up, and Seeder's breath caught in her throat as her floor-to-ceiling screen displayed the Cornucopia and the sandy desert dream of the Fortieth Games, dotted with oases and crowned by a large palace in the north. Seeder's lip gnawing became so vicious that her bottom lip began to bleed as her screen focused on Tulip. She was set between the girl from Twelve and the boy from Nine. She could make it out with ease. Seeder's breathing eased just a bit as the countdown ticked down in front of the marble Cornucopia.

The chime sounded, and Seeder didn't even hear Caesar's exclamation of the Games beginning. Her jaw had dropped to the floor. She kept muttering, "No, no, no!" under her breath, shell-shocked. Because Tulip Ramone was running into the Bloodbath, sprinting as fast as her legs would carry her, into the mouth of the Horn. Because Tulip Ramone was shouting to her allies from the _Anti-Career_ pack.

Tulip had lied to her. The hours that they'd spent in her room, laughing at old jokes and deciding the best strategy, one with no allies and running away from the fray, had been lies. All along, the girl had planned to discard every piece of beneficial advice her Mentor had supplied after Seeder had worked tirelessly for hours upon hours. And now she would pay the price.

Seeder screamed in unison with Tulip as the boy from 4 hurled his harpoon into her chest. She was gone in the blink of an eye. Her vitals all instantly disappeared from the vitals box, her sponsor points automatically were transferred over to Vissarion's account for Lorian, and the screen turned black. Seeder screamed again, sobbing, the tears rolling down her face uncontrollably. Beetee was one of the only free Victors at the moment; Chaplin and Calculata were Mentoring. He dashed to the newest Victor's side and held her delicately as she wept openly into his shoulders.

"She never even listened..." Seeder trailed off, snot dribbling down her face. She wanted to stab something like she had stabbed Shannon to death barely less than a year prior at the finale of the Thirty Ninth. The thought of her Games just brought on another wave of terror and tears.

"They never do," Beetee sighed, lifting the young woman out of her chair and hauling her to the backroom to get a pastry to calm herself while the Bloodbath continued onward. "They never do."

* * *

Ishania Patel held Grover's hand tightly as their tributes rushed into the Bloodbath along with their Anti-Career allies. Their knuckles were white, and Ishania swore she could feel her bones popping. But she didn't care. There was nothing the two of them could do at this point. They could just hope that their tributes managed to avoid the blades of the fierce Careers now that they'd made the foolish decision to face them head on with their alliance. One of their allies was already down, and Beetee had to drag a thrashing, sobbing Seeder from the Center. The poor girl. The first year was always the hardest.

It didn't get much better, however. You just got better at covering up the pain. Ishania had only succeeded twice, with Grover and with Pomona. Grover turned out to be quite an asset in the Center and in the District, while Pomona turned out to be a serial killer hermit that hadn't Mentored in six years despite the fact that she should be taking over from Ishania. But that didn't matter; she'd gotten them out of the Games. That was her job. They could do whatever they wanted to when they were out, though the motherly woman would discourage drugs and the like. But they had to win first.

Rosalie had sprinted to the front of the group, and she attacked _Mag's. Boy._ of all tributes. Ishania hissed as Rosalie managed to cut open the boy's leg. He howled, and Ishania closed her eyes, refusing to see what would happen next. Mag's boy had earned a perfect 12. Rosalie had never stood a chance.

* * *

Mags Flanagan just stared at the screen in shock as Grover's boy leaped on top of Phelps and managed to push him down due to the wound the boy'd been dealt by the Seven's now dead District partner. Phelps thrashed and tried to push Grover's boy off, but the Seven boy would not relent, punching and stabbing and slashing. Mags clenched her small hands into tight fists and watched with hatred as her boy, who had been one of the very first Fours to ever score a 12, was ended by the insignificant Seven boy.

The pain and the anger roiled within her, but Mags took a deep breath and stood as her screen turned black. She packed her bag and walked out of the Control Center without another word. Mags Flanagan was a calm, peaceful woman. The only person who knew her rages was herself. And boy, would she rage tonight.

* * *

Grover Elms knew that it was a game of revenge now. Rosalie stabbed Mags's boy in the leg for killing Tulip. He killed Rosalie for the compromising wound. And then his boy, Parker, managed to kill Phelps in retribution. And now, Grover knew, there was no way his boy was leaving the mouth of the Horn with all of his body parts still attached. This was why he told his tributes to avoid confronting the Careers at all costs, but it rarely mattered. Since most of them knew their way around an axe half well, some of them thought they could slaughter the entire pack single handedly

Dorsal's girl dove around his side, quickly darting forward and slashing open Parker's stomach with a sickle. Parker moaned in pain as he fell to the ground, and the Four girl left him to bleed out painfully. Grover bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted coppery blood, but he made himself watch every agonizing moment as the blood leaked rapidly out of Parker's body. And when he was still and his screen turned black, Grover took Ishania's hand and the two trotted out of the Center without a word in a similar fashion to Mags. Usually there would be anger, rage. Later in the Games, there was. But it had been a simple chain of revenge. It was not in cold blood. There was nothing you could say, really. Grover knew that. It didn't make handling the anger any easier.

* * *

Calculata Fenceley began to count from 1 and up as far as she could to keep herself calm. One would expect her to count the numbers of pi, the table of elements, or the Fibonacci sequence, something in that vein. But Calculata was just a woman, not a robot. She counted to a hundred like anyone else when she waited or when she needed to calm herself down.

Her girl was lacking this year, to say the least. But with the commotion between the Careers and their foes, Addisa could slip out of the melee with actual supplies if she could get out fast enough. The girl already had a coil of bronzey wire slung over one shoulder, and an empty water bottle in the hand of the opposite arm. She was stumbling forward, hyperventilating. It seemed like she might make it.

That's when Calculata noticed the break up of the fight between Careers and Anti-Careers. The remaining four Anti-Careers fled in pairs in opposite directions, while Dorsal's girl stumbled into the Horn, cursing over the lack of her right hand, courtesy of Vissarion's boy. The other Careers quickly turned to the other tributes, however, and Addisa froze the moment that Tarquinius's boy locked his sights on her. Calculata knew it was over then.

She counted to fourteen before the boy dropped a dead Addisa on the ground. That was how old the girl had been. Fourteen and dead. Calculata wiped the invisible tears from her eyes, her facial expression never changing once. She sipped her coffee and joined Chaplin in monitoring the boy. Just because she didn't show it did not mean she didn't care.

* * *

Venice Grammar was almost pulling her hair out as her eyes darted from one screen to the other. Both of her kids were still alive, but she doubted that it would last for long. It never did. The Twelve Escort, who was supposed to be helping her and usually did so pretty well, had eaten bad shellfish at a sponsorship party the night before and was unavailable to help. So Venice had to multitask. She'd done harder things before.

For a minute, her eyes focused on the girl's screen. She watched as Vissarion's boy tugged Rebecca forward across the sand when she didn't run fast enough. They ran too close together, and Rebecca blushed when her hands grazed the Eleven's. Venice resisted the urge to gawk. Love. In the Games. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen it, if she'd even ever seen it at all. But it already felt like a tired cliche, and she turned away to check on her boy.

The screen was already black. She didn't even catch a glimpse of Clermont's vicious gentleman hacking into Kahn with a scimitar. She just sighed and turned back to the screen that was occupied by a blossoming romantic tragedy. She wasn't surprised that one of them was dead. She was surprised that even one had made it out.

* * *

Barcelona Sepias drummed her fingers incessantly against the table as she watched her boy take too long deciding on which pack to take. His eyes kept darting around in fear, and he finally chose the smaller pack in hopes of it not weighing him down as much. Barcelona's drumming increased it's speed until it was a constant thrum, taking over the other nearby sounds.

Samuel began to run, but it wasn't enough. Ivelisse's girl appeared out of thin air, one moment on the other side of the sandy circular field around the Horn, the next ten feet from Samuel. Two knives arched through the air, and Barcelona growled as her screen clicked off to black.

She lifted her lone middle finger into the air and thrust it in the Ones' directions. Clermont was too occupied to notice, and Barcelona swore she almost saw a hint of sympathy on Ivelisse's face when their eyes met. That made her laugh. Ha. Sympathy from a Career. To Ten's first Victor. Surely.

"Good luck with the thirteen year old," Barcelona barked to Jaguar, storming out. Everyone already knew Ten was out of the running now that the boy was dead.

* * *

Mercedes Benson watched as involuntary nerves coursed through her veins. She watched as her failure of a boy, a tiny scrap of a thirteen year old named Mitchell, tried to run away from one of the famed Shale sisters, his ally Kitty's hand interlocked with his own. They stumbled forward across the sand, Kitty weeping pitifully and Mitchell not doing much better. All they had was a tin cup full of beans. Not worth their deaths. Nothing was worth their deaths.

The Shale sister took her sweet time following them, and Mercedes shot a fiery glare towards Januaria, who was watching her sister about to make her first two kills with a strange mixture of nerves and pride. When she finally reached them, Octoberia cut them down in a few quick strokes. Her blade dug deeper into Mitchell, and his high pitched cries for help died out first. Mercedes wanted to curse Januaria like Barcelona had done a dozen seconds earlier to Ivelisse, but she couldn't. She was so tired of this all. She was just simply done. She almost didn't care any more.

* * *

Jaguar Crusoe cried for the first time in several years in silence as he watched Kitty Landers die, face up to the sky, tears streaming down her young, innocent face, her hand clutching the cold one of her dead ally, just as pure. In her glassy eyes, he saw every death he'd witnessed, in his Games and from this same seat, over the past decades. He cried like a baby, and he couldn't conjure enough energy to even look Januaria's way angrily. It really wasn't her fault, anyway. People just like to have someone to blame for their failures. All Jaguar could do was try and not blame himself too much. She'd never stood a chance, anyway. If anything, that just made it hurt more.

* * *

Chaplin Nastaro was never impressed with Three tributes these days. None of them had the brute strength he'd won his Games with. They were all rail thin, sickly, and weak, with bones as brittle as fall leaves and skin as thin as a sheet of paper. Calculata and Beetee were the successful on their missions of playing the technologically smart, trickster type tributes, and some had followed semi-successfully in their footsteps. But most kids either wilted under pressure, or didn't get the chance to show their skills. Or better yet, they lacked any skill all together. Now those were the most _enjoyable_ tributes to Mentor.

He watched as Chip staggered away haphazardly from the Bloodbath, trying to carry an armful of wire, batteries, and other supplies. He knew what to do with them, but he'd taken too many and wasn't keeping an eye out for attackers coming behind or to the left side of him. It was too easy for Clermont's stunning boy to sweep in from the left and behead him in a quick, clean chop. Chaplin sighed, licking his lips as he and Calculata stood and exited emotionlessly. They both knew how the Games were played in this Control Center, and things were better if you left emotion out of it.

* * *

Irmentrude Marley was praying for her girl to just run, goddamit run, while Fox folded his hands in a similar tent position and faked fumbling out the prayers that Irmentrude whispered under her breath. He didn't know a word of them, but he didn't want her to feel alone. His boy was already a good distance away from the Cornucopia, if missing a ring finger, but Avira was one of the last Outliers left. She was standing on the left side of the Horn, cloaked in shadows, a pack over her shoulder; she was stuck between running and attacking what seemed to be a defenseless Career inside the Horn.

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name." Those were the only words of an ancient prayer that Irmentrude had been able to discover, sifting through hundreds of illegal types of media stashed in the dark recesses of the Capitol that was allowed to be seen by her due to her Victor status. She had no idea what religion the words were from or anything like that, but she needed someone to pray to while she sat in the Center, though Fox sometimes found her praying alone on random occasions back in Five.

"Our Father, please help Ms. Avira Oseller find her way away from harm's-" Irmentrude sucked in a breath at the sight of Avira ducking into the Cornucopia. Moments later, the Five girl screamed as Yama brought an aluminum lantern down thrice on the girl's head, denting it. Yama crawled away as Avira curled up in a ball and slowly bled out.

"Our Father, please guide Avira's soul to a better life," Irmentrude murmured, tears gathering in her eyes, and Fox just nodded along wordlessly. Now those were words he could understand.

* * *

Greason Trails watched with a scowl as his girl huddled on the sandy ground, quivering and losing all of her water as she let it leak out of her eyes. The roiling clouds of the sandstorm blossomed violently across the horizon, close enough to be heard by the lost girl, but Kirsten didn't care. She had somehow already broken, maybe when she'd seen Mitchell and Kitty die. She had a twin brother and sister around their age. Maybe that had some effect. Greason knew this, although no one would think he would. He never seemed to be listening or paying attention, but he always was. Always.

He could do nothing for her as the sandstorm enveloped her. She tried to kill herself before the sand would suffocate her, finding a jagged rock thrown about by the storm. She slammed it towards her temple, but the blunt end hit. She was out cold, sprawled out on the sand. She hadn't even tried to run. She was already ready to die. She didn't even want to try. She was the type that should've died in the Bloodbath but somehow hadn't.

Greason was already done packing up his station ten minutes before Kirsten suffocated underneath the mound of sand that she was buried beneath. No one could help someone when they had given up all hope.

* * *

Deana Mitchellson was still shocked that her girl had followed her advice. Esa was bullish and strong minded, and seemed to be the type that would usually sprint into the Bloodbath, thinking they could make it out, before being one of the first to be cut down. But no. Maybe the desert heat dried that out of her, or maybe her lacking training score of 4 and Deana's calm lectures about safety had finally sunken in. But either way, Esa had run from the Bloodbath madly. She and their other boy, Ugus, had tried to avoid each other. Deana knew all the details. They'd been neighbors when they were younger for a short three months when Esa's family moved into the apartment complex where Ugus lived while they saved up to move back out into the Outerlands after their house got destroyed in a tornado. They maintained the friendship sparsely, seeing each other about annually. They weren't a big part of each other's lives, but they were familiar. And that meant a lot in the arena.

Deana's throat went dry as she watched the sand accumulate. The two were so tired and so lost, and they didn't try to run or hide from the sandstorm like the other tributes were doing. They just hunkered down, side by side, and hoped for the best. Greason's girl's cannon shattered through the sandstorm, making Esa jump. That just sent more sand flying in her face, and Esa tried to spit out the sand now in her mouth as the sand piled around her. She just got more in her mouth.

"Come on..." Dillon trailed off, his hands clenched tight around the arms of his chair. Deana expressed the same sentiment in the quiet recesses of her mind. She saw the two holding each other close, unable to escape the grasp of the ever growing mountain of sand they were buried within. The two reminded Deana of a boy and a girl, hiding in a wheat field as the fires raged around them, smoke spiraling into the air. And as a cannon fired, and Ugus crawled out, choking on sand, and Deana's screen went blank, Esa suffocated, Deana was reminded of the scene again. She was reminded of the girl, the frightened girl, leaving little Vickie Curglonn to burn to death as she ran, as she ran and left him just like Ugus had. Deana had never made a kill, but Vickie's death cut just as deep as if she had. She could have helped, but she hadn't. She never helped. All she could do was soothe those destined to die.

Her tiny hands shook as the hovercraft lifted away Esa's body like a broken toy from a claw machine. She could still smell the smoke in her nostrils. She could still see her little District partner's eyes staring into hers as they ran from the Bloodbath, hand in hand. She could still hear his screams as he was roasted alive. She had no idea how the others had killed and coped with it. Witnessing death was hard enough. If she had killed, she wouldn't have been in that control center. She'd be six feet under the ground, having committed suicide two decades prior.

* * *

Dillon Tripp had almost felt optimistic for a moment. Both of their tributes had made it out of the Bloodbath, albeit without an iota of supplies or a semblance of a strategy. But he had almost felt hopeful that they could have a chance, that they could bring someone home for the first time in twenty two long, harrowing years. But then the sandstorm hit, and the girl suffocated to death and his boy, Ugus, barely made it out. He squeezed Deana's shoulder supportively after she'd packed up her station, and then he zeroed in on his station. Deana always Mentored the weaker one, which almost always meant Dillon had time to Mentor on his own when at least one of theirs made it past the Bloodbath. And Dillon Tripp could work magic when he was alone in the Center.

Two days passed without deaths, and the optimism began to return in bits and pieces. Ugus had food and water, and he had found a way to avoid the high chance of being suffocated by the sand by floating in one of the oasis ponds. The Careers were searching in other areas of the arena, and there were plenty of bigger targets than the scrawny Nine boy who didn't even have a cracker from the Bloodbath.

Even when the Careers split to go hunting in several directions, Dillon still had faith that Ugus would be able to survive this sweep. He was covered from head to toe in sand. All he had to do was lay down and he would be hidden. But his boy was eating some berries that made you drowsy, and he was becoming lazy already. He left behind obvious tracks and smashed berries underfoot, and Dillon's resolve loosened quickly once Zion caught onto the trail. Dillon's chest was already empty, his face blank, his hopes unraveled, by the time Clermont's boy stabbed him in the back with a scimitar, so deep that the tip poked out of Ugus's stomach.

Clermont gave a whoop of tamped down excitement, and he quickly sent a brownie in congratulations to his boy, who rationed it carefully, only eating a bite. He was a smart one. Dillon seethed as he stood, his eyes full of fire. All of his muscles were tensed, and several eyes of the remaining Mentors locked on him, including a deviously grinning Clermont.

"A brownie," Dillon hissed, a vein popping out on his forehead. _"A brownie."_ He picked up his half full coffee mug and slammed it onto the ground, watching it shatter, watching the watery brown liquid squirm across the perfect tile. "You lucky One bastards. Sending your tributes brownies for a 'death well done' while the rest of us try to find enough to keep our kids alive." Dillon left without another word, his hands balled into quivering fists.

"What a performance from Tripp this year," Clermont chuckled venomously under his breath to his friend and fellow One Victor, Guild. All of the Ones were there now, same with the Twos, supporting the main Mentors by providing advice and comical reprieves. Until around the Top 8, neither of those Districts usually had to really worry.

"I can't wait to see what other reactions Zion manages to evoke out of this lot," Guild murmured with a snarling grin on his face in response, and the two male Victors of One barked with laughter as Zion took another calculated bite of his brownie, walking back to the Cornucopia.

* * *

Januaria Shale watched with an open mouth, confused and appalled. Her sister, Octoberia damn Shale, the last Shale sister to compete in the Games, was being a traitor of all goddamn things, aligning herself with the love birds from Eleven and Twelve to take out the entire pack. Januaria knew that a risky move was needed for Octoberia to win; after all, if she didn't pull an outrageous stunt, she'd get ganged up upon by the others at the end due to being the strongest in the pack. But this plan was too risky. And worst of all, on Tarquinius's screen, Januaria could see his boy crouched out of sight, just within earshot. Nolan sped away with the information he needed, and Januaria left out a shaky breath.

Aug had fallen to the wires of Beetee Latier. It hadn't been her fault; she could do nothing to control it. She would have won if Beetee's plan had failed. Everyone knew it. Juni had fallen to the other three Careers at the finale when they teamed up on her. It wasn't her fault; even if she'd been the most interesting and likable person in the world, they still would've done what they'd done. Januaria herself had won. Now that was her fault, but she wasn't rueful over that. Apry had lost her life to the robotic mutts after being strung up by the pitifully weak Three boy in her Games. That was partially her fault, but it was dark and gloomy, so she couldn't see the tripwire. And no one could fight those vicious robotic maze monsters barehanded, even if you were a Shale sister. But this death, this inevitable death of Octoberia Shale that Jan knew was impending, would be entirely her fault. She had decided to ally herself with the lowest of the low and had betrayed the trust of all the others. She had built strong relationships with both Ivelisse's girl and Dorsal's girl; had she stuck with them, they would have been able to make it to the end, and Oct could have outwitted them. But Oct had gotten too frightened, the memories of Junia too poignant in her mind. Now this misstep would be her downfall.

Januaria's parents, Kimorah and Augustus, were in the Capitol along with her littlest sister, Februaria. They waited outside of the Center as Januaria sat at her station, white knuckled, the tears already brimming in her eyes, as night fell. The plan was enacted, and it failed, and Octoberia was the first dead as the remaining male Careers gutted her from behind. The tears threatened to spill over, but Jan refused to let them to, running out of the Center without a care about what others thought of her. A fourth sister. A fourth sister, dead.

The moment she stumbled out of the glass doors, her father's strong arms were around her, and her mother shielded her from onlookers and tugged Feb along, who just looked stunned. This was her first time in the Capitol, and she'd never seen Jan cry before. No one had, really. They pulled their two daughters down the street, and they settled in an abandoned boutique. Jan began to smash apart picture frames and tear dresses and other outfits from their racks. Mrs. Shale's breath was quavering, the tears threatening to spill over, and Mr. Shale joined his daughter in the rampage after a minute, finding solace in the destruction.

Jan turned to Feb, her wild eyes full of tears and insanity and anger and loss. She grabbed the smaller girl, only 14 years old but already at the top of her class at the Academy, the youngest Shale sister by far. Jan shook her, her fingers stabbing so deep into Feb's shoulders that they almost drew blood.

"You will never go into that arena," Jan hissed with a horrifying grimace on her face before dropping Feb in a pile of sundresses. Feb just nodded over and over and over, and she would follow through on her promise. She'd quit the Academy the day she returned to Two.

"I can't lose my last sister," Jan whimpered, balling her bloody hands into fists, so tight that blood drizzled between the gaps in her fingers from her wounds. "I can't lose her."

* * *

Dorsal Rance had always been to nice for his own good. He did too many favors for friends at the Academy and was too nice for any of the girls to be interested at him; their sights turned instead to people like Flotsam, bad boys with the ability to murder and make love viciously. In the Games, it almost tripped him up, but it didn't. After all, there is a difference between nice and things like being sacrificial and weak. He made six kills, but each of them was unsettling. Not life changing and not unsettling enough to make him turn into one of those Careers who gives up, but they just shifted a little something inside him until he wasn't sure of who he was. He wasn't weak, but he felt like he was. And then he was too nice, letting the Capitol sell his sexual services at the auction instead of his friends, family, and District facing the repercussions. And then there was the years where he Mentored. He let himself treat and connect with the tributes, becoming their best friend without even trying. Some even manipulated or played with him. That's the type of man he was; easily pliable and naturally nice. But when the things he cared about, the things he was nice to, were torn away, well, hell hath no fury such as this.

His girl, Yama, was curled up on her side in the Cornucopia, trying not to weep. Dorsal thought of everything he'd learned of her. Her parents were named Kazuo and Isae. Her younger brother, Kai, wasn't in the Academy; he has cerebral palsy. She was going into the Games to get enough money to maybe treat him. Her favorite color was violet, and she was allergic to dogs. She hated sunsets and action movies, and preferred starry night sky and romcoms. She was vibrant and witty and knew when to be reserved. She knew what it was to live, to be a real person. All of that was slowly leaking away in front of his eyes, just as the blood was leaking from Yama's crumpled body as her allies tried fruitlessly to help her.

Mags was rubbing his shoulders soothingly, Bex was trying to call up enough sponsors to send her the miracle medicine that might give her a one in a hundred chance to survive her severe injuries (it was useless), Kelan was standing in the wings with a box of caramel filled chocolates, Dorsal's favorite, and Flotsam watched the screen with his Mentor, sitting in the seat next to him, his jaw hard set. When the cannon came, Flotsam squeezed Dorsal's shoulder, but the Victor of the Twenty Fourth Games shook him off. He stood up, shrugging out of Mags calming, massaging hands, pulling the phone away from a defeated looking Bex's face, and slapping the box out of Kelan's calloused hands violently. He picked up one of the smashed chocolates and he took a few steps towards the Eleven station. Seeder, who'd been helping Vissarion cautiously since Dillon's boy died two days earlier, stared open mouthed as Dorsal glared right into Vissarion's passive eyes.

"Fuck that, Vissarion, fuck that. You said you tell you tributes to make it fucking quick, well boy, that wasn't fucking quick." Dorsal smashed the caramel chocolate between his forefinger and thumb, the liquidy candy inside oozing out slowly. "That's what I hope they do to your boy, Vissarion."

"Don't call me boy," Vissarion called back, crossing his arms, his face still emotionless. "I'm a good decade and a half your senior, _boy."_

Dorsal resisted the urge to scream, balling his hands into fists and storming out. Sometimes, Dorsal just wished he could be a good boy gone bad. He wished that the Games would have ruined him like they have so many others. But he was still the nice kid from Four, and nothing could change that. Flotsam scurried out to comfort Dorsal, while the other three Four Victors made apologies to Vissarion in Dorsal's stead. Mags even had the tenacity to wish Vissarion's boy good luck before they also vacated the area.

"Careers," Vissarion scoffed. "Damn them all. At least their kids have a legitimate chance every year."

"Careers," Seeder murmured quietly, half heartedly. "Those...those damn Careers."

* * *

Woof Parsons was in shock, along with Organza. They had small smiles on their faces half of the time as they worked. Sure, neither of their tributes had great chances. But both of them had made the _Top 8,_ and they both seemed to be in at least average condition. It's almost unprecedented; the last time Woof can remember both Eights making it to the end is from his own Games, a good decade and a half prior. He pushed memories of Seamstress and her gruesome end before they could fill his mind and distract him. He needed to remain focused; Joud needed him to be.

It was the eighth Day. Three Careers were dead, and Joud still had his ally, Fox's boy, at his side. They were in a pretty precarious situation at that moment. The sandstorms were getting harder day by day, and they had the most insufficient cover of all of the remaining tributes, a simple trench where they hid from the sand and hoped for the best. He scavenged enough money from his sponsor account to send Joud a shawl, hoping he knew what to do with it, as the sandstorm whipped up in the north. Woof and Organza watched, satisfied, as their little girl remained safe inside the palace as the sand battered the marble walls. And the silvery parachute flew down. Woof hoped and hoped and hoped that Joud wouldn't waste it.

Joud tore the thing to shreds to use as tinder to help start a fire to cook the lizards they've captured an hour earlier. They did it without much smoke, but Woof just shook his head as the sandstorm came closer and closer. It wass the worst one yet, by far; the lovers' tent nearly was ripped to shreds. Only luck saved them. Joud and Bluri went back to sleep as the sandstorm reached the Cornucopia, forgetting about the lethal storm, not even hunkering down in their trench. A frantic Fox sent Bluri a simple nail just to wake him up by having the parachute land, but he didn't awake. Neither of the boys did until the storm had already consumed them.

Woof gnawed his fingernails away and then some as the boys managed to stumble to their feet and teeter and totter around aimlessly. They slowly moved closer to the Cornucopia, their skin turned raw and bloody from the battering sands, their eyes blinded and their mouths unable to make a sound. Woof willed them to turn, to head in a different direction. Joud almost did once, but then he kept going. When the sandy winds fell away, the pair was only a couple dozen feet from the Horn.

It was all a blur as Tarquinius's boy helped Ivelisse's girl tear away the plasticky tarps. The girl had a a throwing knife in hand. It was already in the air before she was fully out of the Cornucopia. It smacked into Joud's chest as Bluri made a break for it. Joud's cannon boomed in moments, and Woof just shook silently.

"Run boy run," Woof hissed towards Fox's boy, who was pinwheeling recklessly through the desert, the Careers hot on his trail. And then he turned to the little girl that they had left, sitting regally on the alabaster throne in the palace. Oh Snow, did he hope that she had something secret under her belt.

* * *

Fox Rennolls had always been subtle and quiet and reserved and tricky, never showing much emotion, always calm and balanced. That changed once one of his tributes made it past the Bloodbath, however. His demeanor changed drastically, and he became avid and eager, never once resting, his sore eyes, with blurring vision, never leaving the screen until his body forced him to rest for a couple of hours.

"Bluri, run, Bluri, run, Bluri, run, Bluri run..." he chanted over and over, tapping his foot against the floor in beat with his begs. Sand spurted underneath Bluri's boots as they chased him, the Two boy in the lead and the pair from One a couple of steps behind. The gap between the fleeing Outlier and the bloodthirst trio of Careers closed over the space of a half hour or so, and Fox kept repeating the phrase over and over until his mouth went dry and his tongue was unable to repeat the same thing over again. Then he was just mumbling useless syllables, and they rose to a pitiful shriek as Tarquinius's boy leaped on top of Bluri, tackling him into the sand. The moans and the screams were louder from Fox than they were from Bluri as Tarquinius's devil of a boy tortured Fox's charge, cutting tiny bits of flesh off and toying with the boy, ripping out hair and cutting of toes or fingers. Irmentrude held Fox as he wept violently, praying over and over in his ear, and other Victors watched or waited nearby, ready to comfort him once the cannon fired. Up until the tribute was gone, it was common tradition that only the District of the Mentor's origin would attend to the distressed person. The torture went on for an hour, until Clermont's boy lightly suggested that he stop. They started arguing a little, nothing major, almost banter really, and a cannon cut Tarquinius's boy off mid sentence. Fox's wail crescendoed, and people were on him from every angle, clutching and soothing and squeezing. Fox was one of the nicer Victors, and he wasn't a Career like some of the nice ones, like Dorsal. So the others flocked to help the poor man, and he accepted their comforts. The only ones in the Center that did not attend to him in some way over the following hour were a majority of the Careers, Organza, Vissarion, and Venice, who were all occupied still Mentoring.

When he could finally get free of the crowds, he stumbled into the bathroom in the back of the Center, sitting down in a stall. He pulled out a tiny blade he carried with him everywhere, and he shrugged off the left shoulder of his sweater to reveal ten pale pink whispers of scars. One for each of the tributes he had failed. Ten little scarred over notches he had dug into his shoulder, some pretty emotionlessly when they died in the Bloodbath, others full of fervor and pain like now. His shaking hand jerked an eleventh small notch next to the tenth one in his shoulder, and he dabbed at the beads of blood that poured forth, hissing out the name, "Bluri Coso." He sat in that stall for a while, feeling the sting of his self inflicted wound and the throb of his distraught heart. Whoever said nice guys don't win the Games was a fool.

* * *

Venice Grammar could barely breathe. It was hard to faze Venice, but she was shaking and she was hot and cold and feverish and she hadn't eaten in three days, and probably needed medical attention, but she wouldn't leave the screen. Because her poor excuse for a female tribute this year, steeped in the pangs and pleasures of first love, was still alive. In the Top 6. She had made it almost farther than any other tribute Venice had ever Mentored. One kid, Parse Miches from the Thirty Fifth, had made it to the Top 6 before placing 6th. But most never even came close to that number, and Rebecca would at least meet that record. Maybe she would finally have a companion, a friend, someone to comfort and cry with her on the rough days, someone to laugh and party with her on the easier days.

She couldn't help but get hopeful as the days ticked past. Two days passed after the boys from Five and Eight had died, and Lorian and Rebecca fell even more in love. She actually felt warmed by the love now instead of turned away by it. Because it was giving them the strength to continue, to possibly make it to the end. Venice had never loved like that before, and she didn't expect to. But it was lovely to see, and it softened the serial killer's daughter's heart, if only for a handful of days.

On the eleventh Day, the camel mutts romped through the arena. The two that attacked Rebecca and Lorian destroyed the pair's tent. Lorian used a dagger to stab the first, and then it was on top of him. Rebecca came out of nowhere and bashed the mutts' brains out with a rock, the first thing she'd been able to grab, neglecting the weapon she'd gotten from the Cornucopia. They were rewarded with a new tent for their efforts, and Venice and Vissarion pooled their funds together to send it.

The twelfth Day, a Feast was announced to occur on the thirteenth Day. Action had slowed to a crawl, and the abundant food and water stores in the oases had been quickly vanishing. Their once paradise was a soggy patch of desiccated land, and despite some minimal amounts of food and water that both Venice and Vissarion managed to send, both of their tributes were quickly becoming weak and dehydrated from the lack of water in the blazing desert, now hotter than ever before. Venice's hope faltered; they were going to the Feast now, and she knew it.

It was over on the thirteenth Day. Venice didn't see the little girl from Eight speeding away first with her pack, or Ivelisse's girl chasing after her. She didn't see the other Careers filtering out their packs. All she saw was Rebecca and Lorian arriving too late. Rebecca made a desperate run for her bag, and she managed to get her hands on both her pack and Lorian's pack while her lover fought off Tarquinius's vicious monster. But then Clermont's slick killer slid from the shadows and sliced into her shoulder with his scimitar as Rebecca screamed. Venice heard the scream over and over, reverberating in her head, as the One boy pushed the girl to the ground and beheaded her. Rebecca's rueful death scream attracted the attention of Lorian, who faltered for just a moment.

Venice didn't cry, just packing up her things as her screen went black, and Vissarion growled in anger as his did too. The stupid, stupid girl had doomed them both.

* * *

Vissarion Chamantel received a call from his wife right after his screen turned black. That menace of a girl from Twelve, oh had she captured the audience's attention and Lorian's. But with her dying scream, she'd also caught the attention of Lorian once more, and it was enough to doom him. As her cannon fired, and he was shocked into stillness for just a moment, Tarquinius's boy took advantage and sliced deep into his chest, ending him.

The phone had rang as all Vissarion could see with black, and he picked it up violently.

"My boy is dead. He doesn't need any more sponsors. Have fun at your pretty party, sir or madam," Vissarion spat indignantly into the phone, pushing his anger at the Capitol on the other end.

"We're not having a party," his wife's husky voice, tired from caring for their seven children without Vissarion's cool personality there to calm them. She was bubbly and emotional, the day to his night, and that was what had attracted him to her. His frown dropped away, and he slouched in his chair, forgetting the black screen in front of him, forgetting the worried looking Seeder sitting on his left, forgetting that there was a little tiny girl from Eight trapped in an arena with three trained killers now. Nothing mattered now, really. He just needed to hear her voice, to steady and calm him.

"Janie," Vissarion whispered. "Oh baby, he was so close."

"I know, Vissarion. I know. We're proud of you, me and the kids. The District is happy that Lorian made it so far. His family is grieving, of course, but they're proud that their son could survive so long and find love. You did all you could do, my love."

It would never be enough.

* * *

Tarquinius Isselhardt wasn't sure how to feel as he saw the little Eight girl unscrewing the bolts that connected the balcony to the palace with her bare hands. Her fingers bled and she lost a fingernail in the process, but survival isn't pretty. The flames from her pyre, made to attract the Careers, crackled behind her, and Tarquinius watched as his boy lead the Ones brashly towards the structure. The little girl, named Kihgi, was making pained little sounds, as if she were burning alive. Tarquinius's boy, Nolan, cackled and strode beneath the balcony, cooling off in its shade as he began to taunt the little girl, calling her names too foul to be fully broadcasted to the entire nation.

The Ones stayed several steps back, sharing an uneasy look. Something seemed off about the situation, and they could see the balcony start to tip, while Nolan had yet to notice it. And they were right. Moments later, Kihgi let out a loud grunt as she unscrewed the final screw. The structure groaned and fell, all two or so tons of marble and metal and burning wood crushing Nolan instantly. His cannon was like a thunderclap, and the little Eight girl had just barely jumped back into the palace. As the Ones gave chase, Tarquinius started to pack up his station.

Nolan had been a throwaway. They'd known he wouldn't win. Octoberia was their main goal at the Academy this year, and they needed a male tribute. Nolan was strong and had enough District pride to protect his District partner unless she betrayed him first, which she had. But he wasn't intelligent, lacked in social situations, and was prone to unnecessary violence and cruelty, as shown by his taunting of what he thought was a burning girl, and his torturing of Fox's boy in the hot desert sands. Tarquinius hadn't expected him to come home; in fact, if Nolan had come home, Tarquinius would've been so surprised that he'd try to kiss Deana Mitchellson and fulfill the dare that Gnaeus had assigned to him a year earlier.

Tarquinius finished packing his things, and the entire pack of Twos left the building after wishing the Ones and Eights luck. The Twos rarely proceeded with anger. They knew when they'd been outplayed, and they accepted the fact with honor and grace. It was a fact that the Ones had chosen an exemplary pair this year that had taken out their girl before she could take them out, and that Eight had a secret weapon hidden in their arsenal that had outwitted their boy. They would cremate the two who had died on the day of the selection of the Forty First's volunteers and spread the ashes throughout Two. They would smelt their District tokens, the same brass rings as always, and use that metal in part to make the next year's rings. They would add their name on the Wall of Sacrifice a hundred odd times, in different colors and fonts and styles, each by a different current cadet, the only artistic thing within the borders of Two's almost clinical Academy. The citizens would carve their names into forgotten corners of the quarries and into the beams of their homes, and everyone would supply for the fallen tributes' families. It was the way Two operated. There was no hysterics or anything of that ilk. It was life, it was death, and it was the celebration of both. That was how things worked.

* * *

Organza White looked upon her little 12 year old tribute with a beaming smile and a proud heart as she stood her ground against the two Ones upon the roof of her marble hideaway, the palace. Organza's smile grew wider and tears collected in her eyes as Kihgi unraveled her banner, sporting a rebellious slogan. "REBEL! TAKE THE CAPITOL DOWN!" Kihgi shouted, repeating the phrases haphazardly sewn onto her patchwork banner. Organza clutched her breast in pride as her tribute, the minuscule squirt from a ragtag place like Eight, taunted _two Careers_ all on her own, calling them sluts, with nothing but her bare hands and a rebellious flag. It almost made her want to laugh in a way, and she could see a few of the Outlier Mentors still hanging around chuckling at the little girl's gibe.

Ivelisse's girl took her down with a simple knife throw to the throat, and Organza was crying, but not from sadness. She was crying in joy. She laughed a little as the jovial tears streamed down her face in thick rivulets and her screen shut off to black. She was crying because, for once, one of them would be remembered. Finally, Eight would leave its mark on the world, with the tiny rebellious girl from the Fortieth that lasted to the end through trickery and deception, who killed a Career and sent a small jolt of rebellion speeding through the Districts. Organza was crying because, for once, the death of her tribute meant something beyond grief and loss and emptiness. Organza White was crying because, well, each ember was one step closer to freedom. Each spark was one step closer to the end of this horrific pageant. If only Kihgi could be there to see the day the Capitol would fall. Organza would give anything for it.

* * *

Ivelisse Horner grinned as she and Clermont, hands locked in triumph, watched their side by side screens. One against One. Beauty against beauty. Grace against grace. Ones rarely, if ever, made it to the end together with no one to face but themselves. Ivelisse and Clermont had succeeded. They had taken their tributes as far as possible. There was no contest between One Mentors this year to see who could do better. Their sole goal was to get both tributes to the Final Two, and then take the Victor out of the arena. They'd take either Hosanna or Zion happily. There was nothing left for the two Mentors to do but sit back and watch the show with prideful faces.

One rarely fought One for the title of Victor, and to see two of the most talented proteges of the IODAE battling it out was a rare treat. They were both like jungle cats, lightning fast and poised at all moments, muscles coiled and ready to spring, movements quick and graceful, like ballet dancers. Their fighting was unlike the brute power of Two or the admirable simplicity of Four. It was like listening to a woodwind duet, like watching two serpents swirl around each other before ones fangs inflicted more damage than the other.

The show sadly didn't last too long. The moment that Hosanna threw her knife at Kihgi, Zion was already leaping towards Ivelisse's girl. Hosanna whirled out of the way, the blade almost cutting off the tip of her nose. She leaped to her feet, about to throw a knife, before Zion's scimitar knocked the first knife from her hand, and then severed the strap of the belt of knives around her waist, barely piercing the skin at Hosanna's hip as he cut away the belt. It clattered to the floor, and Hosanna arched backwards, her hand wrapping around a chunk of marble. As she went to get back to her feet and try to bash open Zion's head, her feet moving fluidly across the ground, Zion twirled and buried his blade in her right calf. Hosanna let loose a little scream, but even then she didn't falter, barely staggering as she tried to stand upright and fight back. Her leg buckled, however, and Zion whooshed forward like quicksilver and sliced open Hosanna's throat. Hosanna fell to the ground like a feather, looking peaceful in death as her cannon fired. The trumpets were blaring loudly and Zion's name was being shouted throughout the arena, and Ivelisse smiled despite the fact that her screen was black as the night and her girl laid dead as Zion was lifted out of the arena. No matter what the other Districts thought of One, they were loyal to their own. It didn't matter who won to them as long it was a One, and that motto held true for the Fortieth Games.

* * *

Clermont Lackrey was roaring, roaring at the top of his lungs and beating his fists against his chest as he soaked in the glory. Twenty five years. _Twenty five years._ Twenty four young men he had helped train and Mentor, all of whom had failed him. Twenty four young men, shipped back to One in cold boxes where they were encased in molded golden coffins and settled in the Hall of Remembrance. Each one, no matter close they'd come, no matter how many kills they'd made or how popular they were, had failed him in death. He admired their ultimate sacrifice, but he hated them so much. Because when they failed him, he had failed as well. And Clermont Lackrey could not _stand_ himself failing in any form.

Unlike the Outlier Mentors, who rushed as fast as they could to the hospital where their tribute would be waiting for them in the heart of the Capitol, Clermont took his time, preparing himself and congratulating Ivelisse and the other Career Mentors on yet another good year for the Careers. He shook hands as the crowds roared his name and Zion Alvarra's name as he exited the Control Center, the other Ones following just behind with varying levels of excitement on their faces, but all of them were smiling genuinely. They made their march and arrived at the hospital where Zion had been brought soon after the Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games. He'd recently awoken from the induced sleep they'd put him in to fix the few scars he'd picked up in the Games.

Clermont walked in. Zion was sitting up in bed, a light smile on his face and a faraway look on his eyes. He was healthy enough to go run a sub sixty second four hundred sprint without a problem, but the doctor had required him to stay in the bed for the time being just in case. Clermont was laughing heartily the moment he walked in the room, grinning so wide from the pride and everything else swelling in his chest. He hauled Zion out of the bed, looked into his eyes for the first time in the years that he'd been one of Clermont's best students, and shook his hand firmly. Zion returned the shake just as tightly and briefly, his eyes shining with shock and respect, and if Clermont was the type to cry from joy, his eyes would be welling at that moment. The other Ones poured in together. Guild shook Zion's hand, Ivelisse hugged him for a little too long, Salandra congratulated him and handed him a chocolate cake she'd baked herself, and Mascara claimed that he'd looked prettier on screen, which made all of the pretty people in the room chuckle. Zion fired back that the one saying that only had _5_ kills, while he had 6. Mascara gasped and punched him in the shoulder as the others whooped with laughter.

The doctor stood on the doorway, watching the Ones mill around, laughing and talking and eating, and she just rolled her eyes, smiling. It wasn't every day that you saw a room full of murderers laughing and smeared with chocolate frosting, and the doctor enjoyed her snapshot of a Victor's life for a moment before leaving them to do as they wished. She wasn't one to tell the Ones what to do, especially after they'd just received their sixth Victor. No one would rain on the Ones for quite some time this year.

* * *

 **A/N: This turned out way longer than I first intended, and I should have probably spent all of this time writing my SYOT, but yeah I didn't xD I really loved writing this, and I would love to do a similar thing in the future. If you guys liked it too, tell me, and you might see a second chapter to this story some time in the future since this was really relaxing and enjoyable for me. I really love my 500YOP universe and I hope you enjoyed this further glimpse into it! :D**

 **Until Next Time,**

 **Tracee**


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